PUNISHER: A Murderous Vigilante's Love Story
by kenxepe
Summary: A second chance at happiness, or another violent shoot-out. The Punisher must choose.
1. Chapter 1

DISCLAIMER: I do not own The Punisher, and I make no money from this fan fiction.

#

PUNISHER: A Murderous Vigilante's Love Story

by Rhonnel Ferry

Mark Mercado dies tonight. Two-bit leader of a small-time gang of muggers. Their last victim, sixty year old James Anderson. Multiple stab wounds to the stomach. In critical condition at the Shelley Medical Center.

Usually, thugs like Mercado don't even warrant my attention. But crime in this city is at an all time low. The Mafia has gone underground after my last encounter with them, you see. Killed a Mafiosi by blowing his limo up with a Multiple Grenade Launcher. That leaves me with plenty of free time.

Why Mercado? Because he just had to stab the old man. Maybe the old guy refused to surrender his wallet. Maybe he had gotten so sick of being a victim, and decided to finally put up a fight. But that doesn't justify more than a dozen stab wounds to the stomach. No, Mercado and his buddies did that for fun.

Cops did what they always do. Interviewed witnesses, took down names, put all the valuable information in a file, and then placed it at the bottom of the nobody gives a shit stack. Come on. If the police were so effective, there would be no Punisher.

Been tailing this son of a bitch for a couple o' days now. Studied his routine. Know when he's most vulnerable. Neither want nor need to use so much energy or resources on this mission. Low-life doesn't deserve it. Gonna keep this simple.

He always walks around with two of his homies. Not gonna be a problem. Come from behind, put an arm around his throat, stab him in the back with a Ka-Bar knife. Maybe I'll stab him over a dozen times. Poetic justice in that. Then I'll use him as a human shield against his boys. Take them out with a bullet each to the head. Simple. Clean. Easy.

I lean my shoulder against a brick wall in a dark alley across the Marquise strip joint. It's their favorite haunt. Stuff my hands in my jacket pockets to keep warm. Wish I had more coffee. Finished a warm cup just thirty minutes ago. No time for another one. Might miss them on their way out.

Thirty more minutes later, and they wobble out the front door. Three drunk guys laughing together, leaning and bumping against one another to try and remain upright.

Like I said, this is going to be easy.

#

It's late. I follow these three idiots up the street. They're laughing and talking like the whole neighborhood's in on the joke. Hate people like this. They don't give a shit who they wake up. Should kill 'em all twice just for that.

The streets are all but empty. If these morons weren't so drunk, (or high on drugs) they'd notice the six foot one, two hundred pound man stalking them.

"And then she says," Mercado laughs hysterically. "Oh no. Water is like a date rape drug to my species!"

I haven't the slightest idea what this lunatic is yammering about, and I don't care. I quicken my pace, take hold of the knife in my-

"Excuse me?" a woman calls.

I ignore her. I take hold of the knife in my-

"E-Excuse me! Help, please-!" she calls out again.

Irritated, I turn my head...and come face to face with a smiling bear. A giant, blue bear,...with a pair of slender legs growing out of its ass. On instinct, I nearly slit its throat. Its stuffing would've splattered my face.

"Please, please, would you help me?" the bear, or rather the woman carrying the teddy bear, desperately pleads.

I look back at my quarry. Gone. Maybe back in that pool hall his crew, the Hammer Gang, calls home. No way I'm storming that place. A bunch of guys armed with revolvers, Micro-Uzis, and sawed-off shotguns. All I got is a Ka-Bar and an M1911 pistol. Not even wearing a ballistic vest. Didn't think I'd need it. This mission was suppose to be easy, dammit!

I grumble, then relieve the woman of the stuffed toy. (What I really wanna do is punch the damn bear in the face.)

"Thank you!" she wearily breathes out. "I knew it would be so heavy, but when I saw it in the store window, and it was on sale, I just couldn't resist!"

I don't fucking care.

"Lucky you happened to be here," she adds.

Lucky for you, at least.

Redhead. Waitress, by the look of her uniform. Skirt's too short. Top's a little too revealing. Must work in one of those breastaurants. She goes back to her car, and shuts the door. Then she walks over to the front steps of an old brick apartment building.

"I'm right here," she informs me. "Just set it inside. I can drag him to the elevator. Or maybe I can convince one of the other tenants to help me."

Is she insane?! Opening her door to a total stranger, in the late hours of the night, in this city, dressed like that?! How is she still alive?!

She opens the door for me. I set the bear down on the wood flooring, then step back out.

"Christina," she says.

"Huh?" I grunt back.

"My name. My name's Christina."

"Oh."

I start to walk away.

"What's your name?" she asks.

I hesitate, but still answer, "Frank."

"Frank, hi. Are you from around here?"

"No."

I keep walking.

"Thank you!" she calls after me.

#

Noon. I'm sipping hot coffee from a paper cup, while using a covert listening device to spy on Mercado. The tinted windows on my customized 1969 Pontiac GTO hide my activities from view.

He leaves his two heavies with the lowrider, and sits with some guy having a cappuccino in a patio restaurant. Blond, clean cut hair, lean build, tall, neatly dressed in a blue button down shirt and tan khaki pants. This guy he's meeting looks familiar.

"Here's your cut," Mercado tells him, throwing a small envelope on the table.

"Excuse me?" the other man responds, apparently irked.

"I said here's your cut-"

"My cut? No. That would mean that we're partners. We're not partners, Mark. You work for me! You've been working for me since you were a poor, little street immigrant panhandler. You still work for me. You will always be working for me."

The older man roughly shoves the envelope into his pants pocket. Mercado just stares down quietly. Everybody answers to somebody, right? Well, maybe not everyone. I know I don't. The older man continues.

"And I don't want any more incidents like James Anderson. That's attention we don't need. Gonna have to lie low for a while."

"Man, that was not my fault. The old fuck fought back. What the hell was I suppose to do?!"

"You weren't suppose to stab him thirteen times! He's a frail, feeble, fucking old man. A light breeze could have knocked him over. What are you, a pussy?!"

Again, Mercado looks away, and, his face tensing with much restraint, stays quiet.

"I meant what I said about lying low," the man warns him, preparing to leave. "And go easy on the coke. It'll make you careless."

The blond guy turns in my direction as he gets up from the chair, and I see his face clearly. Officer William Steele. The cop interviewing witnesses at James Anderson's stabbing. No wonder that case isn't getting anywhere.

Fuck Mercado. I'm going after the head of the snake. I exit my car, and tail Steele. I feel the Ka-Bar knife in my pants pocket. The moment he's alone, when there are no bystanders, like in an alley, or a car park-

"Frank?" a familiar voice calls.

I look around and am grateful that there isn't another giant bear in my face. Because this time, I really would have slit its throat.

"Hi!" Christina greets me cheerfully.

She's not in uniform this warm afternoon, and is instead wearing a yellow sundress. There are children, a boy and a girl, on either side of her.

I look back at my quarry. Gone. Starting to feel like Wile E. Coyote here. Is this just coincidence or is my paranoia getting the better of me?! I remember the time I killed myself and Heaven brought me back as its enforcer. And I wonder if something supernatural is involved in all this. I already told those self righteous pricks to stick it!

"Did Heaven send you?!" I sternly question her. "Are you an angel sent to discourage me from my dark path again?!"

"Oh my," she stutters, blushing and looking away. "That's the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me."

I take a tentative step back. I may have jumped the gun here.

"Oh! These are my kids, Julie and Trevor," she makes introductions. "Julie, Trevor, this is Mommy's friend, Frank."

"Are you trying to date my mom?" Julie asks.

"Julie!" her mother scolds her before I could respond.

Trevor, a small fair haired boy in a blue Captain America tee shirt fearlessly releases his mommy's hand, and approaches me. He looks up and smiles. He's roughly the same age as Frank Jr. when he died.

"You're big!" he blurts out. "You're bigger than Captain America!"

"Actually, he's taller by about an inch," I admit. "But he needed the Super Serum."

"You know for someone who's not from around here,...you sure are often around here," Christina observes.

"I like the coffee," I reply.

"Oh? Which place?"

"Um...that one," I absentmindedly nod my head towards the patio restaurant.

"Well, we were just about to have lunch. Might as well give it a try. Care to join us?"

"No."

"Oh, come on. We're new to this city. You're the only other person I know outside of work. Aside from my landlord, that is."

I hesitate. My targets are gone. One of them might be back at the safety of his pool hall. The other is probably at the police station. No way I'm going to kill a cop in a police station. Even if he IS dirty.

"OK," I agree. Not like I have anything better to do. Hope she's buying.

#

Talking is hard. Didn't used to be. Guess I'm out of practice. The only conversations I've been having these days is when I'm torturing ruffians for information.

Honestly, I'd rather be doing just that right now, than awkwardly sitting here in silence while her eldest glares at me from across the table. The boy chose to sit next to me. He's barely touched his food. He just continues to gape up at me in awe. Like I'm a superhero. Or maybe a circus freak, I don't know.

"You're big as a mountain!" he tells me.

"Trevor," his mother admonishes him. "It's not polite to stare."

"It's alright. I don't mind," I assure her.

"Can we have more ice cream?" her daughter asks.

"OK, but this is the last one," Christina answers, taking money out of her purse. "Take your brother with you."

The kids excitedly head for the counter.

"Where's your husband?" I ask Christina.

"Yeah, he's...with a real angel, now," she answers hesitantly.

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"A Victoria's Secret Angel."

"Huh?"

"He left me for a Victoria's Secret Angel."

"Oh! Oh, well...I'm still sorry then."

She laughs. Understandably, there's a hint of bitterness in that laugh. But it's a laugh nonetheless. And it's been a long while since I've last heard a woman's sweet laughter.

#

Days pass. And then weeks. I start to forget all about James Anderson, Mark Mercado, and William Steele, as I spend more and more time with Christina and her kids.

A part of me wonders if I had wasted all that time being angry. Time that I could have spent trying to be happy again. I mean that's what Maria, Lisa, and Frank Jr. would have wanted for me, right?

Little Trevor positively adores me. He never had a father figure. Too young when Christina's husband left, he has no memory of his father whatsoever. Until I showed up, he had nobody to talk to about guy stuff. Like how to strategically spend your upgrade points in Little Commander.

Even Julie has warmed up to me some. Loyal to her father and protective of her mother, she probably still wants me dead. But I feel like she doesn't want me to die slow anymore, at least.

And as for Christina?

The Punisher was born of pain, anger and hatred. Pain from the loss of my family. Anger at those who took them from me. Hatred for those who continue to bring suffering to others.

But when I'm with Christina, all that pain, anger, and hatred disappear, blocked out by her eyes, her smile, her laugh, her scent.

The Punisher ceases to be. And I am just Frank Castle again.

We're sitting together on the couch of her small apartment, my arm around her shoulders. Kids are on the carpet. Christina let them stay up a little late to watch The Legend of Tarzan on cable. Thank God her children aren't into those stupid, computer animation films. Those things are unbearable.

"Alright, that's enough," their mother tells them, as the credits roll. "Time for bed."

They mildly protest as children often do (I still remember what it's like to be a parent. I will never forget that.) but ultimately obey.

"G'night, Frank!" Trevor expresses.

"Goodnight, Trevor," I say back, then add, "Goodnight, Julie."

Julie doesn't respond. Doesn't even look at me. Just heads for the bedroom with her little brother.

"She still hates me," I whisper quietly.

"Give her time," Christina smiles. Then adds playfully, "It's not easy staying mad at you."

We kiss. Just lightly. At first. Then again, more passionately. I turn and wrap both arms around her. She does the same.

"Another sad development at Shelley Medical Center," a reporter announces on TV. "After being in a coma for more than two weeks, sixty year old James Anderson has passed away."

I pull away from Christina, and focus on the news.

"Mr. Anderson is the latest victim in a string of violent muggings that has been plaguing this city," the reporter continues. "The police have commented that they still have no solid lead as to the identity of the perpetrators, but stressed that they will increase their efforts to-"

"That poor old man," Christina remarks sadly. "But what a fighter. I heard that the doctors were amazed that he didn't just die on the first night with all of those injuries."

A feel something switch on in a very deep, dark place inside of me. Like for a moment, every sound, Christina's voice, the TV, becomes...muffled. And everything around me seems to be in slow motion. When it all goes back to normal,...I am a different person.

I am no longer Frank Castle.

I am The Punisher!

"I have to go," I say out loud. Not sure to who in particular, and I quickly get off the couch.

"What, now?" she asks in surprise. "Why?"

I don't answer. I just pick up my jacket from the arm of the couch, and march towards the door.

"Frank?!" she calls, and runs after me. "Frank, where are you going?!"

"Give up on me, Christina," I tell her coldly. "I'm no good for you. Or your kids."

She stares at me with wide, shocked, beautiful, blue eyes.

"W-Where is all this coming from?" she asks. "Is it because of the old man in the news, or-?"

"Goodbye, Christina."

Then I shut the door behind me.

Mark Mercado dies tonight.

#

In spite of all the rage that normally swirls around in my head like a twister, I'm actually not a reckless killer. Years of military combat experience has taught me to be methodical, patient.

Two weeks ago, I had already surveyed the Hammer gang's pool hall. I know the layout. I know their schedule. I know the numbers. I even know how many hookers they have in there right now.

But having a good strategy isn't enough if you don't have the right equipment to back it up. And that's where my most common problem lies. See I don't have the luxury of choice, anymore. Back when I was working for Uncle Sam, I could choose the loadout, and I had access to the latest in high end weapons, armor, vehicles, and gear.

Not anymore. Now, I scavenge weapons and ammo from my kills. And after the shooting, I don't have much time until the cops show up. Usually I just carry what I can, and run. So, basically the weapons I use are the same second rate street garbage my enemies use. And it's not like these guys have any night vision devices, rocket launchers, or land mines.

So I have to adjust the strategy to suit the available equipment.

That's exactly what I'm doing as I observe their territory through my binoculars from inside my car.

Two big guys guarding the front entrance. Possibly two more stationed at the back. No visible weapons, but I can tell they're packing. Handguns. Something they can conceal. It's the guys inside that are packing the more serious heat.

Can't use the Multiple Grenade Launcher like I did with the Mafiosi. Not with the hookers in there. Hookers don't deserve my brand of punishment. There are those that might argue that they should even be rewarded.

I'd snipe them through their windows from the rooftop of any tall building here. Equipped with a silencer and a powerful scope, I could take them out successively and silently with a rifle from a distance before any of them had any idea what was happening.

Unfortunately, I don't have a suppressor.

Or a telescopic sight.

Or a sniper rifle.

Had to abandon my last one during an escape from a Russian mob. Still feel bad about that one. That was a good rifle.

So what now? As I said earlier,...adjust the strategy.

What have I got here? Binoculars. Tactical body armor. (A little worn out, two snaps torn off, holes through one ammo pouch, but still better than nothing.) 12 gauge pump action shotgun with rifle sling (so I don't lose it like I did the goddamn sniper rifle) and spare shells. Two semi-automatic pistols with spare ammo. Two stun grenades. The Ka-Bar knife, of course.

The two big guys up front may not have had any formal combat training, but they have combat experience. Not in some war-torn third world country, but out here. In the streets. I can see it in their eyes, in their stances. Could probably sneak up on these assholes if we were in Vietnam, what with all the foliage. But not here. Not in their turf.

Drive-by is out of the question, too. These guys will recognize a suspicious vehicle a mile away. They'd pepper it with bullets, and my car isn't reinforced. Also, a drive-by is more effective with at least two people. A driver and a shooter.

I don't have a driver.

But I do have the car.

#

The heavies up front are startled by the 1969 Pontiac GTO speeding towards them for all of one second, before they decide to draw the weapons that I knew they had, and open fire on it! The car is shredded. They take out the headlamps, the side mirror, the front tires, the grille, the windshield. But the vehicle does its job, crushing their bodies to pulp, as it crashes right through the front wall!

Fortunately for me, I wasn't inside it. I used a steering wheel lock, and shoved a lead pipe on the gas. Still, that was a good car. Hope none of the hookers got hurt too bad.

I can hear screaming from inside the billiard hall. Have to make my move now, before they get over the initial shock. I rush forward, and chuck one of the flash bangs right through a window! My grenade pitching skill is quite accurate.

After it detonates, I enter through the gaping hole in the wall.

Two barely conscious gangbangers on the ground surrounded by dirt, shards of glass, and splinters of wood. Another one wobbly trying to get up. I summarily start executing them with the shotgun! At point blank range, I instantly turn the two on the ground into paste. The third one gets catapulted into the far wall.

Turning to the ruined kitchen on my right, I find three more of Mercado's boys, still disoriented but recovering very quickly. They already have their guns in their hands. Uzis. But three dazed hookers are in the way.

The shotgun would have obliterated all of them, so I switch to the pistols, and accurately put several bullets into the gunmen, felling them, just as the ladies get their bearings.

Distracted by three beautiful, naked women, (hey, I'm only human here) I almost fail to notice the two armed guys guarding the back door enter the room. I swing the pistol their way, and shoot the first one twice. He gets hit in the throat, but not before he pulls the trigger, and accidentally injures one of the screaming hookers in the shoulder.

Collateral damage. I try my best to avoid the situation, but it still happens.

The second man in the door returns fire. I get hit twice in the chest, but still manage to shoot back on my way down. He gets hit twice in the chest, too. But only one of us is wearing armor.

I lie down there for a few seconds. Got the wind knocked out of me. Can still hear the woman that got shot crying. At least she's alive. Her friends help her out of the building.

Finally catch my breath, and then force myself back up. I look around at the dead bodies. No Mercado. Must be on the second floor. I reload the pistols. Can hear muffled voices coming from upstairs.

"Go down there! Check it out!" I hear Mercado command one of his boys.

"Fuck, no, man!" the goon replies. "It sounds like a war's happening down there! Let's just hole up here until-!"

"I'm gonna fucking put a hole in your head myself if you don't go down there and check it out!"

Silence.

Then I hear a step of the staircase creak.

A head cautiously peeps down.

And I put a hole in it.

The goon's limp body tumbles down the stairs.

I step over him, and make my way up to the second floor.

#

"Terry?!" Mercado calls out nervously. "Terry, what happened?!"

I can also hear someone whimpering. He's got a girl with him in that room. Can't go in guns blazing.

I take a quick peek through the entrance, and pull my head back just in time to avoid a bullet that crashes noisily into the door frame.

It's Mercado. He's got a revolver in one hand, his other arm around the neck of a young girl, using her as a human shield.

"I got money in here!" he yells at me.

"Thanks for the info," I reply calmly. "I'll be sure to take it after I kill you."

"Who are you with?! The Nevermind Gang?!"

"I'm The Punisher."

I hear him gasp.

"The Punisher?! What the fuck?! I'm no drug dealer. I'm strictly small time. I'm nobody! I don't deserve no fucking Punisher!"

"Tell that to James Anderson."

"That was his fucking fault! Surrounded by three armed guys, and that stupid, stubborn geezer still wouldn't just give us the money!"

"No, Mercado. That was your fault. That's why you should be punished."

"No, man, wait. I know some people. Worse people than me! I can give you names-"

"I already know about Officer William Steele. He's next."

"Officer Steele is nothing! He's a dirty cop, and I know who bribes him!"

"Everybody answers to somebody, right? Problem is if I took that deal from every lowlife scumbag that offers it, then no one will ever get punished."

"Well, then you tell me! What can I do?! Name your price!"

"You can die."

In that split second that I looked into his room, I was able to approximately assess his distance, location, and height. So, unless he moved too much, I will know, more or less, where to shoot without hitting the girl. The stun grenade is out of the question. At such an enclosed area, the girl will be injured for sure.

I step out of cover.

He fires first. But he does so in panic. Bullet misses my head by about half an inch.

I, on the other hand, take a fraction of a second to aim. Then I pull the trigger. I hit him right in the center of his face.

And then...

And then...

And then the son of a bitch doesn't die!

Instead he starts making some ghastly wailing sound. It's like... I dunno. I guess it's like the kind of sound any person would make if they get shot in the face, and didn't die!

Fortunately he loses hold of his hostage. So I shoot him some more with both pistols! He falls, and starts convulsing on the floor. Finally he stops moving.

The girl is sobbing in a corner. The police will take care of her. They'll be coming soon, like they always do, so I have to start collecting guns and ammo, now. Spoils of war and all that.

Don't have time to look for Mercado's hidden stash. So I just take his wallet from his pants on the bed's footboard. I also take his revolver. A 5-shot double-action .38 Special with aluminum alloy frame and stainless steel cylinder and barrel. It's a good prize. The gang leader always has the best guns. I also stuff my coat pockets with some cash, bling, a pair of Micro Uzis, and some ammo from his dead men downstairs.

The moment I hear sirens in the distance, I disappear.

#

What the hell was I thinking? I can't replace one family with another. Having a new family doesn't undo the fact that my last one was viciously taken from me! This isn't a video game where I can just press reset and start over! There are no second chances for me. Because there is no Frank Castle! He died that day in the park with Maria, Lisa, and Frank Jr.

Only The Punisher remains.

Still, I curiously find myself walking down the street where I met Christina. I don't know why. Maybe I just want to look in on them one last time. You know. For closure.

To my surprise, I find her there, sitting on the front steps of her apartment building.

She looks like she's been crying.

But she smiles when she looks up at me, and says, "I don't give up on people easily."

END


	2. Chapter 2

DISCLAIMER: I do not own The Punisher, and I make no money from this fan fiction.

#

PUNISHER: A Murderous Vigilante's Love Story 2

by Rhonnel Ferry

Raymond Reyes works as a freelance bartender for several watering holes located in the seedy parts of the city. He claims to be doing this to fund his independent film projects that deal with the explicit display of sexual activity.

Many years ago, there was a string of tavern stickups. I tracked down and terminated the armed robbers just as they were about to blow away Raymond with machine pistols. Since then, Raymond has been an excellent source of intel for me in my war against crime. Bartenders hear a lot of stories. Usually from patrons who are too inebriated to keep secrets.

I decided to hit him up for information regarding Officer William Steele. A crooked cop that used to employ the services of the recently deceased mugger and gang leader Mark Mercado. We never meet at the bars Raymond works in. Don't wanna blow his cover. So tonight we're meeting at a church basement of his choice. The Briarway Church of Samson.

It's a cold night. But I usually wear a thick coat for that. It's also for concealing an assortment of hand held firearms. Not to mention, a black shirt with a skull design on it. I look around just to make sure I'm not being followed. Then I descend the stairs to the basement door.

But I'm in for a surprise.

When I open the door, I don't just find Raymond Reyes. I also find Olivia Washington. A slender, beautiful, short haired street-walker. She was almost beaten to death by her pimp many years ago. A pimp who had already killed at least one of his girls. I drove a Ka-Bar into his brain through his left eye. Since then Olivia has been my informant just like Raymond. Hookers hear a lot of stories from their patrons, too. Sometimes even more than bartenders.

Delbert Mann. A German immigrant and professional gunsmith. Lost the use of his legs after being struck by a hit-and-run motorist. I tracked down the driver, burned him alive in his own car. Delbert supplies me with weapons and ammo. Not for free, but at a pretty good discount. The man still needs to make a living. I pay him using the cash and valuables I scavenge from my kills.

Good times, all. But what are they all doing here, alongside others that are too many to mention right now? Is it my birthday? Is this a surprise party? It's a really bad idea to give a surprise party to someone who routinely carries guns.

"What the fuck is this?" I ask Raymond.

"Frank, you recognize everybody, right?"

"What the fuck is this?" I ask again, ignoring his question.

"We're all victims of crime," he explains nervously. "We get together every Sunday night. You know, to just talk about all the horrible stuff we've all been through, and how we're all surviving in spite of it. It's kinda' like AA."

He chuckles shyly. Then stops abruptly when I don't laugh with him.

"Anyway," he continues. "It really helps to talk about it, you know. Maybe you wanna share your experiences, too."

I say nothing.

"Or not," he adds. "You don't have to. Sometimes, it just helps to listen-"

"Tell him about the other thing," Olivia whispers to him.

"You tell him!" he whispers back.

"Frank," she tells me. "We're thinking maybe you should give us some firearms training-"

"No," I reply bluntly.

She is momentarily dumbstruck.

"Just like that?" she asks.

"Yes. I'm not the Trainer. I'm the Punisher. You want to take self defense classes, be my guest. But leave me out of it."

"But what if your enemies find out about us?! The things we do for you. What if-"

"Then they'll kill you...and I wouldn't give a shit. What, you all think we're friends? I don't have friends. You could all die tomorrow, I wouldn't shed a goddamn tear."

My answer stuns her. Stuns all of them. I still don't give a shit.

"You got what I need?" I ask Raymond.

"Yea," he answers sadly.

#

I learn from Raymond how Mercado ended up working for Steele. The good officer starts them young. The applicants consist of homeless kids. The entry level job is panhandler. They beg for cash, Steele gets a cut. From there, they get promoted to mugger. Steele gets a cut, he covers for them, keeps them out of jail.

This crooked cop's been at it for years. So there's no denying some punishment's long overdue. But killing a cop is tricky. It's not the same as killing your average, everyday street thug. Just like soldiers, the cops are a brotherhood. Doesn't matter if you're clean or dirty, they got each other's backs. Taking on one means taking on all of them.

Oh, I'd win. I could devastate the entire precinct, if I knew for a fact that they were all dirty. It's not the odds I'm worried about. But while every criminal deserves punishment, not every cop does.

"Frank?" a voice from somewhere calls.

"Huh?" I respond, disoriented, as if waking from a dream.

"Are you OK?" Christina asks.

Christina is a busty, redhead waitress who works in one of those breastaurants. She's my... Huh. What is she, my girlfriend? I dunno. I have been with other women since my wife got killed in a crossfire between two rival gangs. But that was just sex. I hadn't even considered getting into any kind of serious relationship...until Christina. She has two kids from a previous marriage. A girl and a boy. The boy, Trevor, positively adores me. He thinks I'm Captain America. The girl, Julie,... Well, she tolerates my existence, now. And that's improvement. They're about the same age as my own children when they died, and the analogy is not lost on me.

"I feel great," I answer with a smile.

She likes my answer, and she leans from her bar stool to kiss me.

We're at a neighborhood pub, enjoying food, drink, and music. Her kids are at her sister's. Or cousin's. I forget which one. There's a local jazz band performing tonight. They're playing a cover of one of the classics. I can hum the tune, but the title escapes me right now. They're pretty good, actually.

When the song ends, and they go on a break, I take a sip of my beer, and say to Christina, "I gotta go hit the head. Be right back."

In the bathroom, I remind myself to just focus on enjoying the night. Switch off the Punisher for a few hours, and just be Frank Castle.

It doesn't last a few hours. Actually, it only lasts a few seconds. Because when I step out of the john, there's this short, preppy asshole tryin' to make a move on my girl. He tells a joke. She laughs a little, he laughs a lot. And when he does, he touches her knee. She politely brushes his hand away. I march over.

"Frank-" Christina begins.

I ignore her.

"Walk away, asshole," I tell the preppy asshole.

"Whoa! Easy, champ!" he replies with another laugh. "We were just talking-"

"And now, you're talking to me. Walk away."

Christina touches my forearm and whispers, "Frank, relax-"

"Yea, relax, Frank!" the preppy asshole interjects aggressively.

"You're still here?" I growl back.

"OK, that's enough!" Christina says, pulling me away from the bar. "We're leaving!"

"Yea, go hide behind her skirt." he mumbles.

"What was that?!" I call back to him.

He ignores me and walks back to his two buddies, one tall black kid and one white guy with a beard, who laugh at and tease him.

I pull away from Christina, march towards him, and hit him with a forearm to the back of the head! He collapses. His beer bottle smashes into pieces on the floor. I hear a collective gasp from the people around us. His buddies bolt up. They pause, and give each other unsure glances.

Jesus, these guys have never even been in a fight before.

Finally the white kid decides to attack. He rushes forward, and I kick him in the gut. He falls, slides across the smooth, hardwood floor back to their table, where he whimpers in a fetal position. The tall guy wisely changes his mind about charging, and attends to his bearded friend instead.

I get down on one knee next to the preppy asshole. I take hold of his wrist, and then tightly grip his index finger.

"Hey! Hey, what're you doing, man?!" he screams and struggles in panic.

"I'm making sure you keep your hands to yourself from now on," I answer calmly.

"No! No, man! Please! Don't-!"

"FRANK!" Christina screams.

And when I turn, I see the shock, disbelief, and fear in her eyes.

#

A week later, I'm sipping hot coffee in a cold, full-size, upscale sedan. It used to belong to a kidnapper I killed about a month ago. I slit his throat from behind, then had someone put fake license plates on his ride for me.

I'm staking out Steele's apartment. I don't know if he's in there. I don't know anything. All I know is, Christina hasn't returned any of my calls since that incident at the pub.

It's strange. I think about the mission when I'm with Christina, but I think about Christina when I'm on a mission. Well, fuck you too, brain.

A street van ramming me from behind interrupts my musings! It also spills scalding coffee on my lap.

The van backs up, and charges forward again! I pull out the late Mercado's 5-shot double-action .38 Special. Then I turn in my seat, and fire right through my car's rear window. It isn't bulletproof. Hopefully, neither is his windshield.

It isn't. I hit the driver twice. Once in the chest, once in the face. But even as he dies, he manages to ram me one more time. I'm sure I must be injured in some way now. Hopefully not seriously. I'll give myself a health check up later. I gotta get behind some cover, before a bunch of armed hoods pile out of the wrecked van, surround my car and pepper it with holes.

I check the driver-side mirror. It's safe. I cautiously exit that way. And as soon as I do, the roof and the passenger side windows and doors are pelted by, what sounds like, automatic fire from several Uzis!

Who the fuck are these guys?! I'm guessing remnants of Mercado's Hammer Gang, out for some payback. But how did they know to come after me? I didn't leave any survivors in that pool hall... Wait a minute. They had hookers in there with them. The hookers ID'd me!

I keep my head down, waiting for an opportunity to fire back. That's when I smell the gas. The goons have taken cover on the right side of the van. If this car explodes, it takes all of us with it!

"The car's gonna blow!" I shout to them.

They don't hear me, and keep firing.

"Hold your fire! The car's gonna blow!" I yell again.

"Stop shooting! Stop shooting!" one of them tells the others.

When they stop and it becomes quiet, I yell again, "The car's gonna blow!"

"Oh, shit! Oh, shit!" one of them says. And they make a run for it.

I watch them retreat. Four people. And then when they're far enough, I stand up, reach into my long coat, take out a frag, and chuck it after them.

The car doesn't explode. But the grenade does. The shock wave catapults all four of them into the air. The fragments tear into their flesh. The ground is strewn with blood and body parts.

I hear sounds of panic all around. The cops will show up soon. But I think I still have time. I casually walk over to my victims. They're all dead except for one. A woman. And by the look of her wounds, she doesn't have much longer either.

"Who sent you?" I ask her.

She doesn't answer. She just stares up at me, taking quick shallow breaths. I wont be getting any information out of this one. She's in shock.

I aim the .38 at her head,...and end her suffering.

#

That night, my feet take me back to the Briarway Church of Samson. I use a nearby pay phone to give Christina another call. It rings several times, then I get her machine. I hang up.

Should I have left a message? What would I say? I'm sorry? For what? Putting a preppy asshole in his place? I think he got off easy! I'm the Punisher!

Maybe that's the problem. Maybe I can't be The Punisher and be with Christina at the same time. Maybe I'll have to choose.

I walk down to the church basement.

#

When I open the door, I find them all sitting together in a circle. Except for Olivia. She's on her feet, telling a story about how she refused to have anal sex with a client. But she stops suddenly when she sees me come in.

I quietly take one of the metal folding chairs leaning against the wall, and sit myself next to Raymond.

Olivia gives me a smile, then continues her story.

Raymond claps me on the shoulder. I nod in return. Then I listen to the rest of the story.

END


End file.
